Detatchment
by KAlmeida
Summary: Tony is sent to jail for saving his wife, and must then deal with the consequences of his actions. Slowly, he detatches himself from everything around him... even those who care about him most. Please read and review!
1. Chapter 1

"Tony!" barks the guard, banging loudly on the bars, awaking me from what little sleep I had had in the course of the last week. "Visitor!"

I rub my eyes, wanting so badly to see a familiar face, to connect with someone, but at the same time not ready to be seen. It has beentwo weeks, only two weeks, and already I have seen too much. Too much has happened to me.

I am not well liked here. To begin, I am the lowest member on the food chain. I am the newest person here, and I am not respected, as some of the older and more seasoned convicts are. I am not even ignored, as I would like to be. I am known as 'the cop'. It is a faulty nickname, but those who are here know no different. To them, I am just another policeman employed by the government, another person who has done them wrong, and who should be punished for the sins of others.

Sighing, I rise from the small, uncomfortable cot on which I laid. It is far different from the bed Michelle and I shared such a short time ago, it seems, but in another way it seems decades earlier. I am on the bottom of the bunk, which suits me fine. My cellmate is a man convicted of murder in the First degree, as well as several misdemeanor assault charges, and he prefers to sleep above me.

I put both hands out through a small gap in the bars, and the guard promptly handcuffs me. It is humiliating, and I look at the ground to hide my shame. I see no reason for them to cuff me; have I ever intentionally hurt another human being? I suppose it is a trick question. I have never hurt someone with my own two hands, but I have endangered the lives of many people. I understand why I am here.

I understand, and I regret nothing. Even with everything that has happened to me here, with everything I have been exposed to, I regret nothing. If given the choice again, I would follow through with the same decision. Michelle is my wife, my life, my joy, my everything. She is my world, and the one thing that keeps me alive in this prison.

The guard leads me down the hall, past the jeering inmates, spitting insults as me as I walk along. I ignore them; I have grown accustomed to ignoring them by now. Pieces of paper hit me and I ignore. The guard continues leading me through the hall. I ignore.

He leads me to the visiting room. She is already there. She looks quite frightened, and it breaks my heart to see her like this. Her hair is mussed, not brushed, as she always used to do every morning. Her clothes are on properly, but they are worn, and not colour- coordinated. She wears no makeup. Not today. But what hurts me the most are the tears springing at the corners of her eyes as she turns, looks, sees me.

My god, I love her.


	2. Chapter 2

I sit down at the small table, watching her through the glass, never taking my eyes off of her. Even when the guard removes my handcuffs, I do not stop looking at her. She is the only thing I see, the only thing that I am aware of. As the guard walks away, I slowly reach over, picking up the telephone from its place on the wall.

I am scared to talk to her. I am scared not to. For awhile I say nothing, twisting the phone cord around in my hand, over each finger. The same way I did when I nervously called her before our first date. Who'd have thought it would ever come to this?

She does not look at me. I want her to, desperately, I want her eyes to meet mine, but at the same time I do not want her to see into me, to see what has happened to me. I continue to watch her, to watch the silent tears falling into her lap. I want nothing more than to hold her, kiss her, tell her how much I love her and how everything will work itself out in time.

I do the next best thing. Softly, I touch the glass dividing us with one finger, whispering gently.

"I love you, Michelle, and I'm sorry."

At long last, she responds. First she puts her finger over mine, so that we are almost touching, so that there is only a quarter of an inch of glass between our two hands. Then, she looks up. Slowly, at first, looking at my orange coveralls, my plain white t-shirt underneath, my neck, my chin, and finally, my face.

She lets out a small, involuntary gasp upon taking in the sight of my face. I am unshaven, but I know that that is not the reason for her surprise. She has seen my stubble before. No, it is the welt on my cheek that has frightened her, or perhaps my swollen right eye, or even the stitches on the left side of my face.

"Tony, your face…"

She pauses, not wanting to upset me, and unsure of how to continue. I, too, do not know what do say. Do I tell her the truth, do I tell her how I have been beaten every night since I first arrived here? Or do I allow her the luxury of sleeping at night?

"What happened?" she asks finally, deciding that whatever it is, she should know. She should help.

Perhaps she is right in deciding this. Perhaps I am overreacting, and should tell her, let her help me. But my instinct, the same instinct that committed treason to save her, wants to shield Michelle from this. I want to protect her. She should not have to deal with what I am forced to handle.

"Too much, Michelle, too damn much."


	3. Chapter 3

She looks at me concernedly, but I refuse to yield. I will not tell her, I must not tell her. It would only hurt her more than she has already been hurt, I convince myself, and she does not deserve that. I remain silent.

"I miss you" she sighs, changing the subject painfully. I nod.

"I miss you more than words can say" I answer calmly. Never have I been the poetic sort, or even one to whom the right words come easily, especially in difficult situations such as this, but there is no other way to describe the anguish I am going through, being away from Michelle.

An inmate in the wing I am living in- my wing of the prison- is currently going through withdrawal from one of the many drugs he so frequently abused. It is crack, this time, to my knowledge. Often, to myself, I compare it to the way I feel about being without Michelle. Michelle-withdrawal.

"I brought you a book" she offers, sliding a tattered paperback through the small flap covering an opening. I reach in to take it, and our hands meet. I hold hers firmly, rejoicing for the feel of her skin against mine, and for the first time in a week I feel alive. I let me be myself, and our meeting is no longer awkward. I hold her hand until a guard walks past, growling.

"Hands off, Tony."

I obey immediately. A flicker of fear passes across my face. I know what consequences there are for anyone who disobeys the Rules, and I know what the guards will do to me later, if they feel I have been misbehaving. Michelle catches the expression, but I say nothing and she does not press.

I look down at the book. The cover, barely readable, proclaims 'The Power of One'. Upon opening the first page, I see Michelle's name, scrawled in loopy writing, and I realize that this is _her_ book. It is well-used, she must have read it many times.

"Thanks, Michelle." I say, and I smile at her for the first time. I am trying to convey how much I love her, how much I appreciate her gesture, how everything will be alright. She sees it, and she understands.

"I think you'll like it." she smiles back through her tears, "I've read it more times than I can count."

"I can tell!" I exclaim, "It looks as though you've read it more times than Jack has broken protocol!"

It is a lame joke, a last furtive attempt to bring humour to our conversation, but she laughs anyway. I love her laugh. The sound of it, the way her mouth twists so perfectly, the way her eyes twinkle so animatedly…


	4. Chapter 4

I silently pocket the book. Michelle's book. I will read it later, probably every night, if only because it is something that Michelle likes. It will be a small but important daily reminder of her, for the many long nights I will spend alone.

The guard walks over to me. I feel him more than see him, for I am so engrossed in watching Michelle. Her laughter brings immense joy to me, and gives me something to believe in, something to hold on to. I am not, and never have been a religious man, despite the protests of my family. If it weren't for Michelle, I would have nothing to keep me going, to keep me alive. I tell her so.

"Michelle… I love you. You're the only thing that keeps me going." I whisper into the phone.

"If it weren't for me, you wouldn't be here." She answers, and her bottom lip begins to quiver. I realize my mistake immediately, and quickly try to remedy it. Before I get the chance to speak, however, the guard taps my shoulder, none too gently.

"Time's up, Almeida." He says.

I can not let Michelle leave believing that she is responsible for what happened to me. It is something so completely unjust, so wrong, that I am physically unable to move. It is a mistake on my part, and I know it, but I talk back into the phone.

"Michelle, I swear to you, this is not your fault. You did nothing wrong. I-"

"I said, time's up!" repeats the guard angrily, pulling me roughly from the phone. It falls to the ground with a clatter. I have broken a Rule, and I know it, and I know the consequences, but I carry on. For no-one else would I continue, but Michelle must know.

"I love you!" I scream as the guard drags me away, and although Michelle can no longer hear me, I know she understands. She mouths something back to me, I can barely see her, past the guard who is handling me, but I, too, understand.

"I love you too, Tony."

I fight with the guard for a chance to see her get up, pick her purse up from the chair, steal one last glance at my struggle, then leave in a veil of tears. When at last her head has disappeared from view, I let go. I let the guard hit me, I don't care. I let him sock me, I don't care. I let him lecture me, it barely registers.

"That your wife, huh?" He asks, "Man, I'd sure like a piece o' that-"

I hit him. I hit him over and over again. Something in my mind has snapped, something that has remained hidden for the last two weeks, while I have felt completely helpless, at the mercy of others. He could have insulted me, he could have beaten me to a bloody pulp, and I would have done nothing. He, instead, chose not to. He chose to belittle the strongest, most beautiful woman I have ever known, and I swear to myself it will be the last poor decision he ever makes.

There is blood on the ground, and I do not know if it is his or mine. Frankly, I don't care. I want to hurt him, to make him suffer for what he said. I want to break his skull open, I want to snap his neck across my knee. Each blow is harder than the last. I continue. There are faces around us now, concerned voices shouting to one another. I press on, until two large guards pull on my arms, taking me away forcefully. For once, it is deserved. And for once I fight back. I kick and I scream, figuring I can not possibly be in more trouble than I am already. I thank God that Michelle left before the spectacle began.

I continue making a scene, until a third man comes, this time with a syringe. I curse at him, I scream, but the needle lands on my chest, and immediately I go limp. I have been sedated.


	5. Chapter 5

When I wake up, it takes me a moment to adjust to my surroundings, to take in the environment around me. The first thing I notice is the silence, perhaps because my eyes are less adaptable than my ears. The silence is complete and final. There is not one decibel of sound around me. As my eyes focus, the first thing they see is bright white. Sterile. I look around, and see that I am in a room, slightly larger than my cell. I am on a bed, stainless steel, as are all the furnishings in the prison.

I have heard stories of this place. Men – convicts- have talked about it. Not to me, directly, nobody would dare afford me such a privilege as knowledge, but I have spent the last two weeks doing nothing but listening and reflecting, and it has been to some avail. For example, I am aware that the room I am in is not one of the countless cells, or a holding room, but solitary confinement.

I also know that the general stay here is roughly twenty-four hours. They seem to think a man will break in twenty-four hours of… nothing. How wrong they are. I have interrogated men, held them for days on end, and they have not broken.

I realize that I am thinking of myself in third-person. 'A man' will break. Not me. I am no longer on the other side. I am no longer the breaker. I am the broken one.

Slowly, groggily, I sit up on the bed. There is an immense pain in my nose, and tentatively, I touch it. It is covered in gauze, and I guess it must have been broken by the guard. I wince, looking for any other damage. Besides a few expected bruises, I am unharmed.

With nothing else to do, I reflect, back to my trial. The memory is not pleasant, and I have tried to suppress it for the duration of my stay here, but with nothing to distract me, it comes flooding back with a vengeance. Small pieces, the important and disturbing memories, rotate in my mind.

Michelle's face. My mother and father in the back row. My father holding and comforting my mother. Michelle's tears. The intent listening of the jury. The scratching of the court artist's pencils against the paper. The tapping of the reporter's keyboard. The color of the oak of the judge's stand. Michelle shaking with sobs. The crackle of the microphone on the witness's stand. The foreman standing up. Michelle screaming with the verdict. My mother crying. Jack hugging Michelle, holding her as she collapsed. The cuffs against my skin.

It is odd how the smallest of memories can trigger the most powerful emotional reactions. Something as seemingly unimportant as a sound, a feeling, a quick visual from a distance, can cause a grown man to cry.

I am using third person again. It can cause _me_ to cry. And it does. Sitting there, on the bed, garbed in the orange of a convict I put my head in between my knees. I press it into my hands, and I cry, my entire body shaking with sobs. All that I have suppressed for the last two weeks rises at last. I am destroyed, and for once I let it show.


	6. Chapter 6

I don't know how long I stay there, but it seems to me, to be hours on end. Perhaps it is. I do not move from my modified-fetal position. I shake and I sob but I do not move. After a while, another guard comes in, a different one from the guy I beat up.

I am starting to think like an inmate, and it hurts. I do not see guards as allies, fellow law-enforcement officers. They are enemies. From the start, they did not consider me a friend, but I had a difficult time accepting that they were in fact against me. I had thought, erroneously, that maybe they would be lenient because of the circumstances. Even understanding would have been fine. I have been proven wrong again, though.

The guard stands in front of me, and waits until I look up. Good, I figure, let him wait. Let him wait the next twenty damn years, like I'm going to. At last, I raise my head, and look the guard in the eye. I must look a fright, for his expression immediately softens. My hair is at its worst, my nose is bloody and running, my eyes are puffy, tearstains line my face. He squats down, so that his face is level with mine.

It is a small gesture, but it is the first kindness I have received, and I am immediately attached to the young guard. He is in his mid-twenties, I believe, black, dark eyes, shaved head. He reaches out to shake my hand and I take it, disbelievingly.

"My name's Damian. Listen man, you's in deep," he says, telling it straight, and not cutting any corners with me. His voice is a deep southern drawl.

"Tony Almeida. I know." I, too, am straight with him, and do not pretend that I did nothing wrong. I did, and I know it, and he knows it.

"Macmillan's in surgery now, Tony. You really messed him up bad." He informs me.

"He okay?" I ask, not actually concerned about the man, but wondering if I may be facing murder charges. I take it in stride. It really does not matter any more. I am already here for the next twenty years, and by then Michelle will most definitely have moved on. By then, it won't matter if I get out or not.

Damian shrugged. "You's broke a couple bones, but he should be fine."

I nod. "So what happens now?" I ask.

"Well, you's gonna miss out on all you's yard privileges. Meal privileges. Any privileges you's might get, it's all gone to hell, man." he tells me.

"I don't care" I say in a monotone.

"Good, man, 'cause then you's home free. Mac's gotta record of abusin' prisoners, so you's very lucky. Warden' not filin' charges."

I smile. "Thanks, Damian. Thank-you."

He smiles back, showing a mouthful of perfect white teeth. "You's welcome, man. I think I mighta done the same thing from what I hear. If you's ever need anything…"

I nod. "Thank-you."

He stands up, motioning for me to step ahead of him. I do, and he handcuffs me. I do not resent him for it, as I do the other guards. He does not want to humiliate me; he knows why I am here.

"Sorry man. Let's go to you's cell." Says Damian, leading me out of Solitary, through hallways I have not been in before.

More paper is thrown at me, more curses, but I ignore. It is a strength I have gained during my time here. I can remove myself from a painful situation, so that the pain does not feel as great as it could. I can detach myself.


	7. Chapter 7

I lay down on the bed, the hard, stainless steel bed, and I close my eyes. I want to forget. I want to forget everything, the whole ordeal. I close my eyes and I try to take myself somewhere else- anywhere else. I don't want to be here, I can't take it anymore. I would be content anywhere except here.

I suddenly remember Michelle's book. Reading, I figure, is a good distraction. I pat my pocket, and amazingly, the book is still there. I reach in, take it out. Her name is still there, still scratched in her perfect handwriting. I touch it softly, remembering her, remembering our last meeting. As painful as it was, it was beautiful.

I open the book. And I read. The story captivates me; maybe it is not so much the plot, but the fact that it is not here; when I am thinking about it, I am not in prison. I read, turning each page and letting myself focus on each page, on each sentence, on each word. I let myself forget, and it is the most bearable time I have spent so far. I lay there for a long time, I have no idea how long, but I am brought back to reality by the groan of the springs in the bunk above me.

I look up from the book, not daring to move but waiting for another sound, another response. I hold the book in my hands, waiting, wondering. The man above me is Columbian, I believe. From what I have heard, he murdered his ex-girlfriend after discovering her with one of his 'boys'. The man she was with received three broken ribs, a severe concussion, and stab wounds up and down his side. I fear him, more than any terrorist I have ever encountered.

Finally, he speaks. "So is it true?"

"What?" I ask, to afraid to ignore him, and not sure how to reply.

"You mess with Mac?"

I remember the conversation I had with Damian. He had mentioned someone named 'Mac'. I suppose, now, that Mac must be the guard I had hit.

"Uh, yeah. I guess," I answer, "Look, I don't want any trouble…"

The man gets out of his bed. I can feel the release of the springs, and I can see his feet hit the floor, dangerously close to my bed. He is wearing socks, and the standard orange pants given by the prison. I put the book down, under my mattress, never taking my eyes off of the feet. If I have learnt anything from CTU, it is to always keep your eye on the target.

"Bad move, cop. Bad move. Mac and me, we had a system going. You chose the wrong guard to mess with, cop."

He leans forward, so that his face is level with mine. His eyes are light brown, almost golden. I look at him, meeting his gaze, not allowing myself to look away. I want to. I want him to leave, go back. More than that, I want to leave. I want to go home. Back to Michelle.

"You're gonna pay for what you done, now, cop." he informs me placidly.


	8. Chapter 8

I look at him. I do not take my gaze off of him. I want to show him that I have dealt with worse, that I can deal with him. I can not hurt him, I know, for fear of losing more than I have already, but I try to make him see that I can. That I will.

Whatever I had hoped to convey is lost on my cellmate. He pulls me from the bed, throwing me on the ground. The cement floor bruises my right shoulder, but I look up at him. I believe this angers him more, the fact that I am showing no signs of fear, than the fact that I incapacitated his favorite guard. He lets out a primal shout of rage, and kicks my back, my front, my side. It hurts, but it is less than I have experienced before.

I wince slightly, and this fuels him. I close my eyes as he hits me with his close-fisted hand, harder and more powerfully than I would ever had thought possible for a man of his stature. I groan, so softly that it is almost not heard, but I feel the man hit me harder, and I know that he has heard. I squeeze my eyes shut, trying to bring myself somewhere else.

I try to think of something completely different. Michelle. No. I can not have her associated with this incident; it would be almost sacrilegious. My body tenses in an effort to prevent further injury, and I tuck my head under my arms. CTU. I think of CTU, of some of the missions I lead tactical on there. I try to bring myself back into the field, back to the action, back with Jack, and Adam, and Chloe. Yes, even Chloe I would welcome gladly right now. I realize that I miss that place, that job, more than I would like to admit. Perhaps it is only because the alternative is a maximum-security prison, but I know, deep down, that I love the job. I loved the job. I suppose I will never go back there again.

CTU is a temporary reprieve from my situation, but I soon hear the man, feel pain again. He is swearing at me, yelling, kicking, anything he can possibly get a hold of is thrown against me. I try to pull myself away, but it is a useless attempt. I think of the Cubs. I try to remember the series that they have won, their leading scorer, but I am fighting a losing battle. The man, my cellmate, is real, and no matter how hard I try, I can not make him disappear. I can not make my predicament disappear.

I could have taken this guy. I could have made him hurt more than he'd ever hurt before. I was a Marine; I learned certain techniques that could reduce grown men to puddles on the floor. But it seems life is all about choices. I chose not to fight back. I chose this because, although I could take this guy, I could not take this guy plus twenty of his friends in this prison. If I let him do what he wants to me, maybe he will grow tired of it. Maybe he will stop. Also, if I had chosen to fight back, it could be taken the wrong way, considering my history here. I could lose more, but I chose not to.

I lay there, curled up, for a long time. I am sure that the seconds seem to drag on longer because of what is happening, but I am sane and conscious enough to know that it goes on a long time. At last, it stops. No more fresh pain. Briefly, I open my eyes, but I regret it immediately. The man unzips his pants, and he pisses on me. A final mark of complete humiliation. His closing move. The hot, wet liquid seeps into my wounds, stinging them and causing me to cry out in pain. The man laughs.

I hear him get up, climb into his bed. And I wait. I wait until his breathing becomes regular. I wait until I am sure that he is asleep. Then, I roll over and I vomit into the stainless-steel toilet, the blood in my mouth mixing with my bile. I choke, and roll back onto my back. After a moment, I bring myself to my feet. It is a difficult task, and I stumble and stagger at first, leaning heavily on the sink next to the toilet.

I close my eyes again, and determinedly shove my head under the cool tap, rubbing it furiously with the hard soap, trying to rid myself of my cellmate's urine. When I feel satisfied, I peel of my wet clothes, washing each of them in turn. I hide them under my bed, putting my spares on instead. I then let myself collapse onto my bed.

I quickly make the decision not to inform any guards about the confrontation, or to go to the prison medic. I am not well-liked among the guards, and the man has many allies. I will try to hide what has happened to me, and try to avoid the man sleeping above me. I am too tired and too sore to consider that my logic might be flawed; I will wait until tomorrow, I guess. I close my eyes, and fall into a fitful sleep.


	9. Chapter 9

When I next open my eyes, I wake to the now all-too familiar sound of shouting. Another guard, I believe. I roll over, and open my eyes, pus peeling apart as I do. It takes me a moment to adjust, as it always does, but when I do, I realise that the guard standing at my cell and bangning on the bars is Damian, trying, evidently, to wake me up.

"What?" I say throatily, sitting up.

"You's gotta visitor, man. And I dunno who he is, but he gots friends in high places. You's better hurry. He's waiting." Damian tells me, trying to poke his head in, unsuccessfully, as he talks.

"Sure." I say, rising slowly out of bed. My joints protest the movement loudly, but as always, I ignore. I detach.

As I approach, Damian's eyebrows raise in concern. "You's alright?" he asks quietly, a change from his usually boisterously loud and animated voice.

"I'm fine." I lie. Although I trust Damian, he is still a guard, and he could still make my life worse than it already is, willingly or not. I choose instead to take control and deal with my own problems by myself.

He shrugs, clearly not believing me, but letting the subject drop anyways. I reach forward, and he cuffs my hands. The feeling has become less foreign to me. More real. The metal no longer scrapes against my skin.

I walk with him, down the hallway. More gestures and insults are directed my way, but they are fewer now, and I have grown accustomed to ignoring. The pain in my head and body is still fresh from last night, and it is vivid in my memory, but I try desperately to oppress the memories, to push them into the far recesses of my mind. I try to forget them.

"My visitor, he leave a name?" I ask Damian casually as we walk.

"Jack Bauer." he answers, "Here you's go, he's right there."

Damian directs me to a seat, about five cubicles along, again behind a glass wall. Jack is, in fact, sitting there, looking rather flustered but otherwise fine. Damian uncuffs me, and I thank him before turning to Jack and sitting down. I take the phone off of the hook, and Jack does the same. Somehow it is less painful, less awkward than it was with Michelle. Although I doubt Jack has ever experienced what I am going through currently, he has been closer, I am sure, than anyone else I know.

"Tony. Hey." he says simply, but the concern is evident in his tone and in his face. I do not address it, I and hope that he will not pry.

"Hi, Jack." I greet him.

"You don't look so great," he comments, noting my face, now worse than when I met with Michelle. Will all my visits begin this way?

"Yeah, I know. It's nothing." What a lie. "Listen, how's Kim? How are you? I haven't spoken with you since..." I trail off.

"The trial." Jack finishes my sentence for me. "Kim's fine, she's out with Chase's girl today.I'm... fine. You? Besides the obvious, I mean?"

I shrug. "I've been better." I say, not outright lying to Jack, while worrying him as little as possible.

He nods. We both search for something to say. "I'm doing everything I can to get you out, Tony. I've even gotten Palmer involved." Jacks says finally.

"Thanks." I say simply. I am too emotionally drained to do anything more elaborate. Besides, the idea of getting out seems ridiculous to me, an impossible dream.

We pause again, and this time I continue. "Look, Jack, I hate to ask this..."

He leans forward, nose inches away from the glass. "Anything, Tony."

I look down. I can not bear to look Jack in the eye while I ask this of him. I had been trying to forget this, trying to ignore it, but I could not. "Jack, it's Michelle and my, it's, well, it's our anniversary today. Could you give this to her?"

I slip a small card, made on a napkin from breakfast yesterday, through the flapped opening. It is a lame gift, but I can do nothing else while I am in here. If it was at all possible, I would have bought Michelle the fanciest, most expensive thing I could. And she knows it. Instead, all I have is a paper napkin, proclaiming;' Happy anniversary Michelle, You are the best thing that ever happened to me, We WILL get through this, I love you, I love you, I love you, -Tony.' Everything I want her to know, to convey to her, written in blue ball-point pen. Jack takes it, looking at it sadly. Finally, he slips it into his shirt pocket. "Sure, Tony. I'll make sure she gets it."

I look down again. "And could you... could you take her out for dinner or something, Jack?" Tears flood my eyes. Never have I felt so helpless. Even last night, I did not feel as bad as this. I can deal with physical pain, in my own way. It is the emotional, the psychological, that gets me. "I don't want her to be sitting at home, eating Haagen-Daaz from the tub. Not today."

"Yeah, Tony." Jack answers empathetically, "I'll do that for you." He gets up to leave, figuring, understandibly, that our conversation is finished, all that needs to be addressed has been talked about. Always buisness-like and to the point, Jack.

"And, Jack?" I look up at him as he turns to go, pleading him silently with my eyes.

"Yeah?"

"Don't tell her what I look like?" I beg, tears flowing down my face. I don't want my Michelle to think that anything is wrong, to know what is happening to me, to think that there was anything she could have done.

"Sure, Tony."


	10. Chapter 10

El depresión. Depression. Though I am no psychologist, and have never attempted to understand anything remotely connected to the realm of psychology, I believe that this term would be appropriate for my current state of mind. I lay in my bed, sometimes reading, drifting in and out of consciousness. I have done nothing else for the past two days. Michelle and my anniversary has come and passed, and I am still here. With nothing better to do than laying in the cold, hard, cot provided to me.

I have been left alone, as of yet, and for that I am thankful. Apparently my cellmate's lust for violence has been satisfied for the time being. I am around others so little, that I have not yet had any issues with other inmates. Damian, the guard, was right. Any privileges I might have had are shot to hell. I have been in my cell – nine feet by nine- for two days. I have not been allowed outside. For meals, I have been given the bare minimum in food- all served to me in my cell. I am given only what is necessary to keep me alive, to prevent a lawsuit.

I lay here, occasionally opening Michelle's book, but really, at this point, nothing helps. Nothing distracts. The book, too, is depressing. They just killed off the kid's goddamn chicken. I would not normally be so upset about the loss of a fictional poultry animal, but my emotions have been so overused, so raw lately, that the smallest thing is enough to make me tear up.

I don't want to live like this. I hate it, I hate it with a passion. I hate feeling vulnerable. I hate Jack's pity. I hate the other convicts. I hate most of the guards. I hate my bed, my cell, myself. I hate being without Michelle. I hate being thought of as a traitor. I can't live like this, not for twenty years. I can't spend twenty years doing nothing but waiting. Waiting for a visit, waiting for my meals, waiting for another beating. I can't live like this.

If it were not for Michelle, I would not be here today. True, I would not be in the prison, but I mean I would not physically be on earth. There are so many ways I could do it. I could use the Columbian's knife, steal it from the crack in the wall where he keeps it. I could break my neck against the bars. I could hang myself with the white sheets on the cot.

I shake my head. I know that I can not do that, not while Michelle is still on the outside, still waiting for me. She would feel ultimately responsible, I am sure. I do not want to let that happen. With every ounce in my body, I want to protect her. And if that means surviving a little longer than I would like, so be it. I will wait. I will wait until I am sure that she has moved on, until I know that my death will mean nothing to her. She is probably the only one that would still care at this point. Given a few weeks, maybe a few months, and she will find somebody else. I don't mind. I can not give her what she needs, and eventually she will find someone who can. Someone to look after her.

I close my eyes, thinking of Michelle now, and smiling to myself. I miss her more than anything I have been deprived of. I want her. I need her. I love her.


	11. Chapter 11

It is six in the evening, precisely, when Damian brings me my dinner. The other inmates have either already left to go to the 'dining hall', as it is referred to by the guards, or more commonly known as the muck house, or they are on their way there. My cellmate is leaving as Damian walks by, stopping at our cell. He waits until the Columbian is a few feet away, before unlocking the door, and entering the cell himself. Most guards, in fact ninety-nine percent of all guards, would have slid it through the slot in the wall, but not Damian. He comes in, sits down on the cot beside me, handing me the tray. Curiously, my 'cellie' pauses for a moment, watching Damian, before turning on his heel, down the hallway.

"How you doin' man?" Damian asks as I hungrily devour the plate in front of me. I appreciate his presence, and look at him as I answer.

"Been better. Been a hell of a lot better." I answer truthfully, the stale bread creating a nasty taste in my mouth.

"You'll get through this, Tony. I seen tons of guys come in here, and first they don' cope at all, man, but they all got through it. They all got out." He says, patting my shoulder and trying to be comforting. I decide to open up to him; he is the only person who has a fairly clear idea of what goes on Inside, and who'll listen.

"I got a wife on the outside, Damian. She's not gonna wait twenty years for me. A month ago, I was so happy, _we_ were so happy. I had my whole life ahead of me. Now, I have nothing. Nothing." I continue to eat as I speak, my hunger overriding my need to speak openly.

"She'll wait for you, man. I seen her. She loves you like… somethin' else."

"I don't know that I want her to spend her whole life hung up on a guy who can't give her what she wants, Damian. She deserves better. Why do you care so much, about me?" I ask, wondering what his motives were. Everyone has a motive. Nothing is free.

Damian shrugs. "I know why you's here, man. I read your write-up. It ain't fair, I'll tell you that much. You deserve a freaking medal, not a twenty-year term. It ain't fair."

"It isn't, is it?" I repeat, thinking for myself of the unjustness of the situation. I did what I thought was right in an impossible situation. Isn't that what we should all be doing, what we think is right?

"No, it ain't. You'll be fine, though, man. I got faith in you," Damian decides finally, giving me a last, firm, pat on the shoulder. I nod, handing him the now-empty tray and shaking his hand.

"Thank-you, Damian." For the first time here, I actually trust someone. I care for him, like a brother, if only because he is my only ally. And he trusts me, and it is that, if anything, that lifts my spirits.


	12. Chapter 12

I sleep easily that night, easier than I have ever slept in the joint. I feel as though a large weight has been lifted off my chest, because I have confided my thoughts to someone else. For once, I do not think about ways to end my life, but ways to continue. I consider what Jack told me.

'I'm doing everything I can to get you out.' The sentence repeats itself in my mind. Jack is doing everything he can. That has to mean something. Jack and the President are going to get me out. I will see Michelle again. She will wait for me. We will start over. I smile. With this happy thought, I fade, fade, and finally fall deeply into sleep.

When I wake up, the Columbian is still in the bed above me. He hears me sit up, and jumps down onto the floor. I watch him, scared of what he might do, even with the guard right around the corner. To my surprise, he does not touch me. He does not even speak. Instead he throws a newspaper on my bed, beside me. I do not know how he got it, but somehow I expect he had someone – a friend, maybe- smuggle it in for him.

I instinctively open it up to the first page, still eyeing the Columbian warily. The headline hits me like a punch in the gut. My stomach drops, and I have to lean against the wall to keep from falling back onto the cot. I close my eyes, but still I see the words, outlined brightly in my head.

'Officer, 25, Gunned Down Near Prison'

The picture on the front is of a crime scene, yellow tape surrounding a white body bag on the sidewalk. It is horrific; I can see blood seeping out from under the bag. I shake my head, looking down. Beside the crime scene photo is a head shot of a man, apparently the officer. A young, black man, shaved head, dark eyes. Damian.

I continue to read, though each word is more painful than the last.

'Damian Sommers, 25, was gunned down last night in a side street near to the prison where he is employed as a guard. In an alleged drive-by shooting, motive is still unclear. "Damian is a well-liked member of the community, no-one would want to hurt him" says one shocked neighbor. Police have no comment at this time, but witnesses describe the shooter a 'young, Columbian male'. No other details have been released.'

It goes on to describe Damian, how he was the son of a Lieutenant, how he was never associated with any known gangs, making the shooting all the more bizarre. I know the motive. The Columbian saw me last night, with him. Goddamn it! I should have known! I should have known. I could have stopped it. My cellmate has gone beyond the usual physical battle with me. No, instead he has waged a psychological warfare on me. And he is winning. He has the means, he has the money, the men to do whatever he wants for him, I feel sure.

I am his target.


	13. Chapter 13

When I have finished reading the article, the article I will remember for the rest of my life, I silently fold it, and place it neatly beside me. I say nothing. I get up, and I say nothing. The Columbian is standing, watching me. I say nothing. I do not give him the satisfaction of knowing how much he has hurt me. I make a decision in that millisecond. Becoming attached to the people around me, trusting people, letting myself be vulnerable to others, is too painful. It hurts me, and it hurts them. There is no joy in that. I make a choice; I choose to detach myself completely. I choose to not be hurt. The Columbian shifts awkwardly. Finally, he speaks, unnerved by my silence.

"You like that, cop?"

He says the nickname, cop, as though it is a curse, the worst possible thing that he could possibly call me. Fine. Let him think that. I don't care. I turn around, to face him, slowly, calmly. I say nothing. He speaks again.

"You know what comes next, doncha, cop? We go after everything you got. That woman that come to see you, that other man…"

I turn around suddenly, and with my forearm against his neck, I pin him to the wall. I have decided to detach myself, but my first and foremost duty will always be to protect Michelle. Whatever else I may do, I will always protect Michelle. This man has threatened to hurt her, and I know he has the means to, and I know that I must stop him. I must convince him not to. Whether to use my powers of persuasion, or to use force, is entirely at my discretion. I choose to use force, if only because it will help to feed my anger at this awful man.

I press harder, and the man begins to choke. He is breathing, but barely. His feet dangle, inches from the ground. He deserves much worse, but I show surprising control, both in my actions and my voice.

"If you lay a hand on her…" I growl, my voice so low that no-one else could possibly hear, "If one of your 'boys' so much as goes within one hundred feet of her, I will rip you limb from limb. I will make you watch as I remove your organs, one by one. And finally, when there is nothing left inside of you except for your brain, your lungs and your cold, empty heart, I will cut your body up, and your mother won't even have a corpse to bury."

I release, and the Columbian drops to the ground. He rubs his throat, gasping for breath. He looks up at me, and I glare back down. I show a fierceness in me that I had kept hidden before, and maybe it is this that causes him to cower in fear. I think he saw me before as an easy target, a punk. I have just shown him that I am no such thing.

"You hear?" I say, loudly, to reiterate, without actually repeating my speech.

He says nothing. I kick him.

"I said, you hear?"

"Yeah, man, I hear."

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	14. Chapter 14

I sit back down on the cold, hard bunk. The man looks up at me. I stare back down at him. I am cold, and unrelenting. It is clear that I am now in control and I know it and the Columbian knows it. He stands up, walks over to me.

"That was a dumb-ass mistake, cop, and you better hope you'll live to regret it."

I am not sure what exactly he means by this, but the tone and feeling are evident. He is not pleased. I stand up, getting off the bed. My joints have healed in the past few days, and moving does not hurt as much as it once did. Still, though, I am forced to suppress a grimace of pain. I inch closer to the man. I am a small bit taller than he is, and I use this to my advantage. His eyes are staring directly towards me, but he avoids any eye contact. So do I. He, like me, has detached himself.

"What's your name?" I ask him. I pretend that he is a suspect, that I am once again agent Tony Almeida of the Counter Terrorist Unit. It helps some. When I was taken away, in handcuffs, put on trial, locked in jail, I lost something. I lost my edge, as an interrogator, as an agent, and as a human being. In fighting back, I redeemed myself. I regained my edge.

"Manuel." he spits, saliva splattering against the concrete floor.

"Listen, _Manny_," I sneer, "If I were in your position right now, I would not be so cocky. Do you know who you're dealing with? Huh? Do you know why I'm here?"

"No," he replies.

"I didn't think so. My wife- and the woman you just threatened- was kidnapped. I risked thousands upon thousands of lives to help a known terrorist in return for her safe return. Thousands of lives. Somehow yours seems, well, rather unimportant. Care to tell me again, how I've made a mistake?" I try to make myself taller, more imposing. I am so close I can feel his breath against my neck. He backs away.

"I don't believe you." he offers lamely.

"Fine. Don't. But if you want to wake up tomorrow morning, I suggest you do."

With that, I sit back down on the bed, completely ignoring the Columbian- Manuel- and I say nothing. I pick up my book, turn to the page I folded, and continue reading. The words have long since lost any meaning. I know Michelle's intentions were to help me, in giving me this book, but I don't grasp any life lessons from it, any philosophies to get me through this. I barely remember the plot. It is too 'less real' than what is all around me. It is nothing more than a momentary distraction.

I hear a guard shout to Manuel, telling him that a visitor is here for him. I continue reading. The guard comes over, cuffs Manuel, leads him away. Everything is perfectly organized, unflawed, rehearsed. It has been done many times before. In my lifetime alone I will probably do it more times than I can count. This is what my life is reduced to. The most joy I get is from confronting thugs, and waiting for a visit.

I want to get out. I want to scream. I need to be free.

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	15. Chapter 15

My life becomes a monotonous refrain of meals, exercise in the pen, reading, and sleep. I do little else. There are times when I wonder if I will ever live as I once did, with Michelle. There are times when my life outside seems like a dream, a scarcely remembered figment of my imagination. Happiness becomes almost unreachable, and I often doubt whether I will experience it again. Each day, I execute the same actions, the same routine. I know that I have not been in here too long, although it feels like an eternity.

Slowly, I am letting myself slip into the mind and actions of a criminal. A convicted felon. For is that not what I am? Did I not commit treason? I am no better than the rest of the men here, or so I try to convince myself. While I remain steadfast in my belief that my actions were for all the right reasons, they were just as illegal as those of the man down the hall, who killed his wife's lover, or those of the drug dealer to my left. I start to believe that perhaps- _perhaps_ I deserve to be here. If I had been exempted from the Law, what kind of judicial system would ours be?

I say this to myself, maybe to ease the pain of being put away unjustly, maybe to try to justify what happened, but I know that it is not true. I hate it here, I hate it more than anything I have ever experienced. I know why I am here, but it does not seem like the right reason. I am sitting alongside men who killed others callously, without a second thought or regret. Men who sold illegal and damaging substances to fourteen-year-olds. I am not like these men. Theirs were not crimes of love, they did not commit these felonies for the right reasons. It was my wife at stake, my Michelle, and I had no choice.

It is while I am thinking of her, ironically, that the guard comes. I am not surprised. I do not jump up, at attention, as I once would have. I simply give him a weary look, wondering what he could possibly want from me. He returns the look, and grunts.

"Almeida, your wife's here."

Now I am completely alert. I stand up quickly, nearly running towards the front of my cell. He opens it, and lets me out. Part of me, the courteous part, wants to thank him for opening the door, as I would to anyone else who opened a door for me, but I suppress it. He is not my friend, and he does not want to help me. Instead, I let him lead me to the visiting room. To Michelle.

She is waiting there, just as she was on our first visit. She looks more composed this time; her hair is smoothed down nicely, and her clothes are perfectly color-coordinated. She grins at seeing me, and I do the same. Her eyes, for once, do not fill with tears, and this above all brings me joy. It is no longer painful for her to see me this way. Perhaps she has grown used to it, as have I.

"Hey," I say pleasantly, taking the phone and leaning in.

She nods and touches the glass. "Hi Tony." she says. I look at her for a long time, taking in every part, wanting something to look back on while I am sitting in my cell. She looks very good, as well as I remember. Her wedding ring shines proudly on her finger.

"I would have come sooner," she explains, "but they've been pretty strict since what happened last time. Jack had to make a dozen phone calls just to see you, and he wasn't even the cause of the commotion."

"That's alright," I say, knowing that it is not her fault, knowing that she would have been here with me every second of every day if the rules allowed. "How are you?" I ask, eager to converse again, to take my mind off of prison.

"I'm good," she answers, "considering. Listen, Tony, I need to talk to you."

This is it, I know. Even during our marriage and relationship, this tone of voice, these words, were never preemptory to a happy, fun-filled conversation. I nod, not showing my fear of what is to come next, and look at her.

"Sure," I say, "What's up?"

She fiddles with her hair, rubs her neck, does anything but look at me. Finally she answers.

"CTU wants to transfer me."

"To where?" I demand, angry that they would inflict yet another problem on Michelle. Michelle, who has been through so much. It is incomprehensible that they would transfer her from somewhere where she had worked for many years now, from the city where her husband was in jail.

"Seattle." she replies bluntly.

"Will you accept?" I ask, truly wondering. While I want Michelle to be happy, and to have a job that she wants, the selfish part of me wants to keep her close. Seattle seems so far away.

She looks embarrassed, and the tears threaten to make themselves known again. "I already have." she says.

"Oh." I say, and though I try to conceal it, the disappointment is evident in my voice. I see why she chose to leave. Her job is one of the only things that is secure in her life right now. I can understand that point of view. I know she is not doing it to hurt me, but I can not help but feel betrayed.

"I'm sorry, Tony." she says. Her eyes enforce her statement. I do not want her to look so sad, I do not want her to feel this way, so I lie.

"It's fine, Michelle. I really don't mind at all."

She smiles sadly, but accepts my response. Suddenly her smile widens brightly. This sight is enough to make me feel slightly less disheartened about her departure to Seattle. It is her words, though, that truly give me hope.

"I nearly forgot!" she admits, slapping her forehead. She looks around and leans in, speaking more quietly.

"Tony, Jack and Palmer are trying to get you out. It's not going to be easy but…" she looks around again, making sure that no-one is eavesdropping, "Palmer thinks he can pull some strings."

I smile back at her. "Really?"

"Yeah. It could take a few months though."

I shrug. "How long have I been in?" I ask, truly unsure, but almost positive that Michelle will know the exact amount of days.

"Nine weeks, six days." she answers. She has been keeping close track all along, and I am touched.

"I can handle a couple more months." I decide.

A guard comes past, and says "One minute, Almeida!" I do not flinch or appear scared as I once would have done. Michelle gathers her purse and prepares to leave, remembering our last meeting.

"Look," I say seriously, "don't feel bad about Seattle. You deserve to pursue your career. I love you; that's all that matters."

She nods. "I love you too, Tony. You look good."

Without another word of explanation she leaves, walking down the hallway, out of the prison, and into the world; a place where I am no longer allowed. I leave, slightly happier after seeing Michelle. Perhaps I have a chance after all.


End file.
